


Shattered Mirrors

by goodbyelover



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Assassin Mark Tuan, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Dark Past, Kidnapping, M/M, Mark Tuan-centric, Married Couple, Minor Character Death, Minor Im Jaebum | JB/Mark Tuan, Murder, Negotiations, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, honor among thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24068002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodbyelover/pseuds/goodbyelover
Summary: Three years ago, Mark left behind a dark and bloody past, disappearing into the faceless crowd to try and find peace. Instead, he found Jackson and happiness.When someone kidnaps Jackson to use as a bargaining chip, Mark plunges back into a world built on death and loyalty in order to protect what he cares for the most.
Relationships: Mark Tuan/Jackson Wang
Comments: 44
Kudos: 90





	1. The end of an era

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Obscure Sorrows Fic Fest: **Daguerreologue** \- n. an imaginary interview with an old photo of yourself, an enigmatic figure who still lives in the grainy and color-warped house you grew up in, who may well spend a lot of their day wondering where you are and what you’re doing now, like an old grandma whose kids live far away and don’t call much anymore.
> 
> \-- 
> 
> Beta'd by @maricolous
> 
> Trying this chaptered fic thing again. :D/ John Wick!Mark, yay!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To quote Semisonic's Closing Time: Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.

The man fell to his knees, clutching the ruins of his shredded throat, a horrid gurgle escaping along with a gush of blood. Mark watched impassively, beautifully bladed knuckles dripping red as the man twitched and stilled at his feet. 

There was pain and then there was silence.

Behind Mark came a wolf whistle, but Mark didn't turn as Bambam approached. 

“Impressive,” Bambam commented, carefully peeling custom leather gloves from his delicate fingers and handing them off to a nearby underling before kneeling over the dead man. He held his hand out to Mark, expectantly.

Mark reached into his pocket, pulling out a delicate pocket watch and handing it over. Bambam clicked it open, revealing a broken watch face and a darkened thumbprint pressed to the etched cover. Bambam carefully reached down, sliding his thumb through the dead man’s blood before bringing it back to the watch, pressing his thumbprint next to the one already there.

“I’m done,” Mark said as soon as he did.

“Are you?” Bambam asked, rising to his feet to face Mark, eyes gleaming with sharp amusement. “Can you be?” 

“I have no debts,” Mark said, pointedly looking at the watch. “You could check, if you wanted.”

Bambam waved a dismissive hand, cleaning his hands before pulling his gloves back on and stepping away so the cleaning crew could sweep in and take care of the corpse. “This will be delivered, of course. You know that’s not what I mean. Is the Crimson Spectre really going to walk away?”

Mark considered Bambam for a moment. Clever Bambam, powerful Bambam. He’d been a shit assassin – the name Dread Viper would not be remembered, had probably already been forgotten by most – but as the young owner of the prized Crown, he was influential beyond belief and had always offered Mark sanctuary, aid, and intel.

Mark wouldn’t miss Bambam, but if he were to miss anyone, Bambam would come the closest. Maybe Jaebum too.

“I’m done,” he repeated. “I’m calling in that favor.”

There was a pause as Bambam weighed his options, though there was really only one way out. One could not reject a favor owed, not without consequences, and Mark was owed so much, having held on to Bambam’s very first favor for all this time. 

“A new life,” Bambam agreed with a small smile, a little flick of his lips. “It’ll be done before sunrise.”

Mark nodded curtly and turned to leave, pausing to look over his shoulder. “Goodbye.”

Laughing, Bambam gave Mark a salute that was both admirative and mocking. “Goodbye, Crimson Spectre. The scene will be duller in your absence.”


	2. The arrival of a storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek at the life Mark has made with Jackson as Yien. Domesticity abounds and Mark wishes it would last forever. It doesn't.

“Wakey wakey!” Jackson chirruped, throwing himself down on top of Mark on the bed. “I made breakfast!”

Groaning, Mark slowly pulled the blanket off his head to squint up at Jackson. “When you say breakfast… Do you mean like… a real breakfast? Not your shitty smoothies?”   
  
Jackson scoffed in offense, reaching up to shove a pillow in Mark’s face. “You’re terrible, Yien!” 

“Chicken isn’t a smoothie food!” Mark insisted, even as Jackson tried to suffocate him.    
  


“It’s delicious and you don’t know what you’re missing,” Jackson said, even as he pulled the pillow back away. He was a sweet man and he made Mark’s heart do things that it had never, ever done before; made it race at the sight of a smile. “ _ But,  _ and you really should love me, Yien,  _ but…  _ I’m making waffles.”

He beamed at Mark, expectantly.

Fuck it, Mark’s heart was doing that thing again, that thing where the sight of Jackson made it constrict so tight, like Jackson had reached in and taken it for his own. 

He hadn’t actually taken it. Mark had given his heart to him freely. 

“I do love waffles,” he said instead, leaning up to kiss Jackson’s nose. “Let me brush my teeth and I’ll be out.”

“Yeah,” Jackson said, wrinkling his nose. “Your breath stinks.”

Mark took great joy in dumping Jackson off the side of the bed.

At the sound of Jackson’s yelp when he hit the ground, Milo came bounding in, tail wagging in excitement as he absolutely threw himself at Jackson’s face, trying to lick into his mouth.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Jackson flails around, trying to get their canine’s tongue off of his canines. “You! You’re so gross! Why are you like this to me! I feed you! I take you on walks! You would never do this to Yien!”

Milo snuffled happily as he licked Jackson’s teeth.

Mark rolled onto his side to watch Jackson wrestle with Milo with great affection, laughing when Jackson started ‘talking’ to Milo through a series of puppy yelps.

He’d never deserve Jackson, but there was an unmatched happiness now that he had him.

“Okay, okay, lets go get breakfast, yeah?” Jackson cooed down at Milo, hopping up and reaching over to poke at Mark’s shoulder as Milo danced around his ankles. “You said five minutes. I see you’re a liar.”

“Five minutes  _ never _ starts until we’re out of bed,” Mark defended, though he did slide out from the covers to head to the bathroom, pausing only to admire the glint of Jackson’s wedding band on his ring finger as the man took Milo back to the kitchen with him.

Freedom hadn’t fully suited Mark until he’d met Jackson, the man whirling into his life a mere six months after Mark had moved to this city – a place where fresh starts were common and Mark could easily blend with the others trying to keep their starts from going stale. Jackson had made it easy for Mark, saying that he’d accidentally bought two coffees before handing Mark an americano with his number scrawled across the side.

Mark was not an easily swayed man and so it was a testament to Jackson’s charms that Mark had actually texted him. Jackson had swept him away and Mark, surprisingly, had found himself eager to be wrapped up with this terribly alluring man.

He felt that way even after he’d found out Jackson was a cop. A  _ detective _ , even.

It wasn’t so concerning, though. Bambam had ensured a seamless job, and Mark would always feel a soft twinge of guilt at the lie of it all, but then Jackson would smile at him and Mark could not help himself. 

“So,” Jackson said, talking around a large mouthful of waffle, which was both disgusting and endearing. “Can you pick up Milo’s food on the way home? I thought we’d be fine until the weekend but I think I miscalculated.”

“That’s because you give in every time he whines at you,” Mark said with a grin. Milo was almost out of the puppy phase, but there was probably at least one growth spurt left in him. At least they’d finally got him to stop chewing the furniture.

“He’s just too cute,” Jackson sighed in defeat before leaning to peek at where Milo was sprawled under the table. “You, I’m talking about you. Stop being so cute.”

Milo snuffled against his foot and drooled a little.

Mark cleaned up while Jackson went off to get dressed for the day, changing out of pajamas into a turtleneck and blazer, and he was so handsome that Mark couldn’t help himself as he looped his arms around Jackson, tucking his hands into the man’s back pockets to pull him closer for a kiss.

“You’re gonna make me late,” Jackson said, even as his smile curved against Mark’s lips.

“Just one,” Mark said, kissing Jackson sweetly. It was never just one kiss, but that was as much Jackson’s fault as Mark and when they finally parted ways, Jackson was practically glowing. 

“I’ll make dinner tonight,” Jackson said, booping Mark’s nose affectionately. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Mark said as Jackson breezed out the door, before he too went off to get ready for the day.

Technically speaking, Mark would never need to work another day in his life, but he found that keeping himself busy was healthier for everyone involved, and so Mark had carefully acquired a job that he would enjoy and that would satisfy his place in Jackson’s life. A vintage pawn shop had done the trick and Mark spent most of his days carefully sorting and restoring the odds and ends his boss accepted to try and sell them to the next customer. It was a surprisingly satisfying job, Mark taking pride in his ability to transform an object with gentle care.

The sun was beginning to sink in the sky as Mark closed shop, careful to lock every lock and set the store alarm before trotting down the street to pick up Milo’s food. Mark would have been content to feed the pup kibble, but as it turned out, Jackson was a bit of a health nut and had insisted Milo be raised on a raw meat diet. Who was Mark to say no? He bought a small farm’s worth of meat.

The apartment was silent when Mark got home, but he noted that he was a bit earlier than usual. Jackson usually took Milo out for a run before starting dinner so that the puppy didn’t spend the entire time begging for scraps.

That notion was shattered when he spotted Milo’s leash on the counter, Jackson’s running sneakers sat nearby.

Mark immediately grabbed one of the kitchen knives and crouched behind the counter, listening intently. The apartment was  _ silent _ . Neither his husband nor his dog could keep that quiet under any circumstances.

Discreetly, Mark eased himself around the corner of the counter, methodically checking for any signs of danger, but the apartment turned out to be truly empty, not an ambush or another soul waiting for him in the dark corners or the closets, but also no Jackson or Milo.

His only answer was on a sticky note that had been pressed to the back of their apartment’s front door. It wasn’t in Jackson’s hand, instead written in a crisp script, the black ink stark against the paper. 

‘Come alone’ it read, with an address across the city below it.

Mark’s eyes hardened as he looked down at the note, reading it one more time before tucking it in his back pocket. He went to return the knife to the kitchen and shove Milo’s food in the freezer – he couldn’t afford to be an optimist about when he'd come back – when  _ they’d _ come back.

He carefully turned the light off as he left the apartment, locking it behind him before heading off to his car. He knew how to make his way to this address, knew it belonged to a block of luxury apartments that were taking applications but hadn’t started leasing to tenants yet.

Someone was going to regret tonight, and it wasn’t going to be Mark.


	3. The setting of the board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an effort to find Jackson and Milo, Mark makes several phone calls and several threats, and a new player enters the game.

The apartment building that Mark had been directed to was pitifully easy to break into. Mark didn’t even have to break anything, just vault a fence in a dark corner and jimmy a pitiful lock or two. He eased through the darkness, not willing to check if this place has been wired for electricity, eyes adjusting as he crept along. There was no sound aside from the occasional car passing by on the street below.

The specific apartment that he had been directed to was nothing more than a skeleton of empty walls and naked sockets, apart from a single cell phone sat in the center of the main room. Mark had known it was too good to hope that he’d find Jackson and Milo here, but it still sent a fissure of irritation down his spine as he swiped the phone, opening it. It was unlocked, a number input into the keypad already. 

Impatient, he dialed the number.

The other side picked up after the third ring, a stranger’s voice in his ear. “Hello, Mark.”

“Where are they?” Mark asked, not in the mood for pleasantries or any kind of small talk.

“They’re safe,” the voice said - an older woman from the sounds of it, careful, methodical. “My employer has a proposition for you in exchange for their safety.”

“Your employer will be thankful  _ if _ they live through the night with their neck intact,” Mark said. It was not an idle threat. Not after such a transgression as violating Mark’s privacy and putting Jackson in any sort of harm. 

There was a pause, a soft sound of shuffling, and then another voice came over the connection. “All I want is a simple exchange,” the voice said, this one younger, male, with more bravado than actual confidence in his voice. “If you do what I ask, they’ll be returned unharmed. No strings, no tricks.”

“It’s not asking when you move the pieces first,” Mark said, easing himself towards the edge of the nearest window, though he doubted he was being watched. He doubted these people were even in this city. “Just call it coercion. Tell me who you are and what you want. Now. Don’t make me wait.”

There was another pause and then the man on the other end sighs. “My name is Kim Yugyeom. My father, may he rest in peace, recently passed, leaving me behind his empire. I believe you did business with him?” 

Ah.  _ Those _ Kims. Yugyeom’s father had been an unintelligent man, able to maintain his place at the High Table only due to the legacy of his family name and a longstanding monopoly on illegal gun trade. Mark wondered if the man had died of natural causes but did not care to ask. “You weren’t the heir, last I checked.”

There was a snort. “Well, my brother either pulled the same disappearing act as you or he’s dead. That leaves me.”

“What do you want?” Mark repeated impatiently. He didn’t really care what Yugyeom was dealing with. He just wanted to know what was being asked in return for Jackson and Milo’s safety. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else would ever matter.. 

“I’d prefer we speak in person,” Yugyeom said. “My retinue and I will be checking into the Crown. Would you meet us there?” 

The Crown. Hallowed, neutral ground. Mark was absolutely going to kill this Yugyeom. “I need insurance,” he said instead. No point in threats when Mark did not hold all the cards. Threats were only effective if you did not stand to lose by them and Mark would burn the world for Jackson but only if Jackson was safe first. 

“Most certainly,” Yugyeom agreed. “I am not trying to be a ruthless man, I am simply trying to make a deal. Here.”

There was another shuffle and then Jackson’s voice came over the line. “Hello?”

Mark sighed, unable to hide how relieved he was to hear his husband’s voice. “Hey there, Gaga.”

“Yien, what the fuck is going on?” Jackson asked, and Mark is faintly proud that Jackson isn’t in hysterics. 

“I’ll explain later, there’s no time right now,” Mark said, knowing the phone was going to be taken away at any second. “Are you and Milo okay?” 

“Does any of this seem okay?” Jackson asked with a huff of agitation, and Mark could definitely hear as Jackson raked his hand through his hair. “I’m… we’re not hurt. I’m not hurt, Yien. Milo’s okay.”

“I’ll explain when I can,” Mark promised, hearing Jackson grunt in affirmation before the phone was changed back to Yugyeom. 

“We’ll see you at the Crown as soon as possible?”

“Yeah,” Mark said, processing a million things as he replied. “I’ll be there.”

“Good night, Mark,” Yugyeom said, and the connection ended.

Mark dialed Bambam as soon as it did, the numbers emblazoned in his memory despite the time that had passed. His hands didn’t shake while he tapped out the phone number, but there was something absolutely furious burning up his spine.

“What can I do for you?” Bambam answered, voice smooth and velvety in Mark’s ear.   
  
“Swear to me that you didn’t sell me out,” Mark snarled.

“Of course I didn't,” Bambam said, clearly affronted. “Who do you take me for? I can’t help that he was determined enough to spend the resources to find you on his own.”

It did little to placate Mark. Three years, gone in an instant. Mark’s husband and beloved dog being used as bargaining chips. Mark would have willingly defied High Table rule if Bambam had taken part in this.

“Your room is waiting for you,” Bambam said in the silence that lapsed. “I can help arrange flights, if you wish? You could be here two hours early, if you’d like. I believe that would coincide with your new business dealings well enough?”

“... Fine,” Mark relented, quietly making his way back out of the empty apartment complex.

“Be at the airport as soon as you can, I’ll drop you your flight details to this phone,” Bambam said.

“I expect a bottle of Hibiki waiting for me,” Mark said, unlocking his car and sliding behind the wheel. “And find me Jaebum.”

Bambam clucked in dismay. “Ahhh, Jaebum’s been pretty scarce these past few weeks, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t be coy, it makes you sound stupid,” Mark said, and hung up, pulling away to head straight to the airport. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on the situation. What was done was done, there was no going back to how things had been in the morning. There was only what could be done next, and if Mark was going to ensure Jackson’s safety, he was going to have to step carefully.

It was perhaps luck that Yugyeom had chosen the Crown, though. Mark briefly touched his fingers to the pendant around his neck, one that he’d never once gone without - he’d once told Jackson it was a family heirloom, and it was the only thing he’d brought with him into his new life. It was a silver key, antique and rough with age, small and ornate enough that it passed off as an accessory.

Everything passed in a whirlwind – Mark had a plane ticket when he arrived at the airport, passing by and ignoring a very upset man that had been bumped due to the flight being suddenly overbooked. It was hours, but it felt like an instant before Mark was sliding into a taxi, offering the address of a bar that was a block away from the Crown – one never asked to go directly to the jewel of the underground city unless one wanted to be booted out of the taxi or worse.

***

Dawn had not yet arrived when Mark set foot upon the Crown’s threshold, the door opened for him by a smiling staff member. He passed in silently – the Crown thrived during the night hours, but as morning had begun to creep in, the luscious hotel was settling down to a spirited murmur rather than the full roar of high time.

Bambam was perched on the front desk, chatting to the receptionist, though he slid off and approached Mark with a smile and a laugh. “Mark Tuan, long time no see! I’ve missed you.”

Mark just stared at Bambam, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Ah,” Bambam said with a delicate sniff. “I see we’re being all brooding and murderous today. Come, come, I have your room key here. You and the Kim entourage are on opposite sides of the hotel and on the most top and bottom floors because I cannot have you causing mayhem in my house. I’ll fetch you when a meeting can be arranged.” 

He briskly handed over a key, but Mark exchanged it for the one he wore around his neck. “I need that vault brought to my room.” 

Bambam looked at the key, carefully cradling it in the palm of his hand before handing it back. “It might take some time to retrieve, perhaps but… Consider it done. Please enjoy your stay here.” 

Before Mark could leave, Bambam caught his arm, and more seriously added, “For what it’s worth, I think this is something you can handle, Mark.”

Mark inclined his head and stepped away, heading off to his room. A part of him was ready to scale the outside of the Crown to the top level, knowing Bambam must have put Kim Yugyeom up there. He didn’t have to wait, he could find Jackson  _ now. _

But he couldn’t do that. There was no way for him to do that without someone resorting to violence, and bloodshed inside a High Table hotel was the fastest way to be stripped of any protection. Mark couldn’t do that to Jackson. Instead, he unlocked the door to his room. He appreciated that Bambam had freed it up for him, having always liked the view of the busy intersection in front of the Crown.

He wasn’t sure he appreciated Bambam having kept several of his custom pistols though, seeing them laid out on the coffee table along with an assortment of other tools. He picked up the Glock 19 and weighed it in his hand, feeling the tiniest notch on the trigger from an adventure he’d had in Tokyo. 

These were pieces of his past that shouldn’t feel familiar anymore, but they were laid out in front of him, as if no time had passed at all. 

Mark tugged off his jacket and got to work, inspecting each weapon before adding it to his arsenal or discarding to return to the Crown’s prized cache. Once his selection was made, he strapped on the shoulder harness, two pistols secured against his ribs, along with the Glock tucked in the back of his belt. Daggers in both boots, slimmer ones to his wrists. Mark almost laughed when he saw the bobbin hairpins Bambam had left of him before carefully tucking several into his hair, hidden out of sight.

It wasn’t heavy firepower, but Mark knew how to handle himself in a pinch, and he felt the weight of the pistols settle against him like an old friend, something in him relaxing in a way that it hadn’t in three years. 

Mark hated how quickly the feeling came.

Lastly, a bottle of Hibiki whiskey was waiting for him and he restrained himself from popping it open and taking a swig. It deserved to be appreciated and Jackson deserved Mark’s sharpest wits.

He’d just set the bottle down when there was a knock at the door. “Housekeeping?” Bambam called out, teasingly.

Rolling his eyes, Mark went to pull the door open. “You can’t fluff my pillows.”

“I own this place, I can do whatever I want,” Bambam informed him, before pushing a cart into the room. Atop it sat a locked metal box, sturdy and solid. Mark slid the key from his neck and set about undoing the various locks on the box until the latch popped open and revealed its contents. Inside sat a testimony of Mark’s merits, a small pile of coins and jewelry, all small objects, but also all completely unique.

“You were so thorough,” Bambam said, peering inside, though he made no move to touch. “Is that the Huang crest? What did you do for Zitao to give you that?” 

“I killed a lot of people,” Mark deadpanned.

“Wow,” Bambam replied, giving him the most judgmental look mankind was capable of giving. “I would never have guessed. Mark Tuan did a  _ murder _ ? Call the press. Was that the time with the Christmas lights?”

“No,” Mark said, rummaging through to find what he was looking for. 

“Someday you’ll actually tell me what happened,” Bambam sighed. Mark was absolutely never going to, but he wouldn’t burst that bubble right now.

Finally he found the token he was looking for, holding up a copper charm in the shape of a cat. 

“Ah,” Bambam said, understanding now, as he reached into the jacket of his beautifully tailored suit, pulling out a folded up note. “Yes, you’ll be wanting this. I’m not sure how interested he’ll be in having company though, he moved shop recently.”

Mark glanced up, lips thinning slightly. “I don’t much care how interested he is,” he replied, plucking the note from Bambam’s fingers before pocketing it along with the charm. Jaebum could be fussy and particular after this was all over. Mark was owed and he was coming to collect. “Let's stop wasting time.”

“I am absolutely obligated to tell you that if you break any of the house rules, I will have to blacklist you immediately,” Bambam said, leading Mark out into the corridor and towards one of the establishment’s lavish parlours. “No muss, no fuss, not in my house.”

Mark just nodded, forcing himself to slow to Bambam’s pace as they went. Something was bubbling inside of him, having simmered the entire flight here. It swelled and Mark wanted nothing more than to barrel ahead, because Jackson was waiting for him. 

Still, Mark had not made it this far in life by being reckless, and he swallowed that heat, let it burn deep inside for the time being.

Bambam stopped in front of an elaborately carved wooden door, hand resting on the knob. “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

Mark nodded. There was no room for hesitation.

It was showtime.


	4. The shape of the future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the past, Mark is alive. In the present, Yugyeom strikes a deal. Mark isn't willing to take chances when it comes to Jackson's safety. A new player enters the field.

Mark was sixteen and the man on the other side of the makeshift ring was easily twice his age and twice his size with some bulk to spare, prowling like a caged animal as he waited for someone to give him the green light. The warehouse was cavernous and filled to the brim with people and spare equipment – Minjun had said this place normally served as a mid-way point for jacked cars before they got resold, with overstuffed toolboxes and greasy rags shoved in every corner. There were no barriers between the spectators and the competitors, but everyone knew to keep their distance or risk being drawn into the fray. Nobody would rescue them. This wasn’t that kind of place.

“They will always underestimate you,” Minjun said, hand low on Mark’s back, fingers pressing along the knobs of his spine, voice low in his ear. “You’re small, you’re pretty, it doesn’t matter how many times you win, they’ll always think that they’ll beat you, that they’re better than you.”

Mark’s pulse was jackrabbiting,  _ thumpthumpthump _ against his ribs, so hard it hurt. Minjun was right, after all. Mark hadn’t been bested yet, but that didn’t stop his opponents from leering at him in disgust or other hungering emotions. Having not yet finished growing, Mark was a small slip of a thing and Minjun wasn’t the only one to call him pretty. Still, it wasn’t  _ fear _ that Mark tasted on his tongue as he rolled his shoulders, waiting like his opponent for the shot to be fired. 

It was  _ excitement. _

The shot rang out, explosive in such a confined space, and the man let out a roar before lumbering towards him. Mark hadn’t even asked for his name – it wasn’t important in places like these, where the High Table demanded to be entertained.

Mark let the man come to him, Minjun melting away into the audience and leaving him alone. The man was bear-like as he loomed over Mark, his fists coming together above his head before he brought them down to try and club Mark unconscious, but it never landed. Mark tucked his knees to his chest and rolled, dodging the blow by a hair’s breadth. He was light as a feather on his feet as he twisted behind the man, slamming his heel against the man’s spine as hard as he could before leaping back towards an empty corner. 

The crowd jeered – they wanted him to lose, they always did. Like every person he’d faced in these brawls, the audiences saw him, saw a young, pretty thing, and wanted him broken. There was genuine delight in the possibility, a sort of savagery that thrummed through the crowd as the match went further. 

Mark sidestepped another blow, the man staggering to his knees with the momentum of the miss before Mark darted in.  _ One, two, three _ , quick as lightning he sank his fists into the man’s soft belly, his strikes precise as the man gurgled in pain, trying to swipe at him again. He caught Mark’s thigh with a fist, a flash of pain shooting up his leg, but Mark still flitted away as the crowd booed. 

“You little fucking bitch!” the man roared in fury as he gave chase, but Mark kept the distance between them, daring to laugh in the man’s face. It was a grotesque dance of sorts, Mark courting danger every time the man closed in on him, the two of them sweeping from one corner of the makeshift ring to the other in a whirlwind of peril and provocation. Though the man was large, and franky stupid in Mark’s opinion, he was dogged. Mark barely had room to breathe as he skipped out of the man’s reach yet again.

Despite this, his gaze was still drawn to the scaffold above the fighting pit, where the High Table chose to sit when they were around. There were several tonight, Mark spotting Kim Yusuk along with Ock Joohyun and Ahn Chilhyun watching them with great interest, leaning over the railing to get a better look. It was satisfying, though Mark couldn’t dwell as the man caught him with a kick to his thigh again, penance for his wandering attention, a fresh ripple of pain rushing through him. It was the same leg he’d hit earlier - it was going to bruise massively and it took all of Mark’s discipline not to crumple as he put his weight on it, his other leg whipping up to crack against the side of the man’s head.

There were screams from the sidelines, obscenities, threats, promises, all of them washing over Mark as he finally turned to face this man head on. Mark had taken several hits, but most of them had been glancing blows, minor bruising that would fade quickly, and the worst being the newfound tenderness in his right leg. His opponent did not fare so well, sporting a broken nose and a split lip and an eye that looked like it would blacken before the night was over. He was panting, clearly winded, favoring his gut where Mark had gone after him again and again and again. The difference between the two of them made the man  _ furious _ and he let out an enraged roar as he charged towards Mark. 

Out of the corner of Mark’s eye, Minjun signalled. Time was up. No time to dawdle. 

The man lunged and Mark felt his fist fly over one shoulder before he brought his fist up, rabbit punching the man in the throat. The man gagged violently, a disgusting, wet noise as Mark kicked one of his ankles in with a sickening crunch. The hulking form of his opponent crumpled, and Mark was immensely helpful with his descent, catching the man’s head with his open palm to aid in slamming his skull to the concrete. 

It was flashy, a show-off move, and it got people, the same people who’d just wanted him to be torn limb from limb, to go wild. Mark didn’t take the time to bask in it, though he was young enough still that it made his heart swell with naive pride. 

The match was called and he was making his way towards Minjun when something struck him across the shoulders, something harder than a man’s fist, that beat the air from his lungs. He pitched forward but kept his wits about him as he rolled, twisting to his feet to face who’d struck him. It was the bear of a man, defeated and broken, something slimy and disgusting dripping down the sides of his lips, mingling with the blood that oozed from his skull. In his hand, he held a pipe wrench he’d grabbed from the debris that littered the sidelines.

A hush fell over the crowd, no roars of approval or cries of dismay. These nights had very few rules. Place your bets, gamble your fate, but no weapons allowed.

Above them, the High Table watched. 

Mark’s brow furrowed as he watched the man lurch towards him again, the ankle Mark had stomped on earlier clearly broken. It made it easy for Mark to avoid the pipe wrench swung at him as he walked around the man. A kick to the back of the knees brought him down, but Mark had a hand wrapped around his chin to prevent the man from falling prone, his other hand cupping the back of his skull as he leaned in close. A tension settled over the warehouse, taut as a wire, as all watched the two of them.

“How’s this for a little fucking bitch?” Mark asked in the man’s ear before he snapped the man’s neck with one vicious wrench of his hands. 

The crowd went wild as Mark let the dead body fall from his grip, their cheers rising to match the absolute elated pounding of Mark’s heart in his chest. A man lay dead at his feet and it was the most alive he’d ever been.

Above him, the High Table smiled, approvingly, as Mark stepped over the body to rejoin Minjun. “That was perfect, sweetheart.” Minjun looked smug as he slung an arm around Mark’s shoulders, waving the crowd away as he whisked Mark out of the warehouse and away into the night to celebrate the winnings.

Mark never did lose a match in that ring. Eventually people learned to fear him.

Eventually people stopped asking for a fight.

***

The room Bambam led him into was familiar. Mark had taken several memorable contracts here, including the rather lucrative deal from the Huangs.

He took quick stock of the room and its occupants. Several suited individuals fanned out around the parlour, clearly just the muscle of the organization. In the center of the room was a loose circle of sofas and chaise lounges, and upon one of these sat a young man, clearly Kim Yugyeom, with a woman standing near his shoulder – Mark hadn’t been able to place her voice, but seeing her now, he recognized Wang Feifei. She’d been handling the Kims affairs for nearly a decade. 

Mark’s gaze didn’t linger for long, his eyes drawn away to what he’d been looking for as soon as he stepped inside.

In a corner, with two men boxing him in and a gag in his mouth, was Jackson. Beautiful, brave Jackson, with Milo curled up in his arms and tucked close against his chest. He stared at Mark like he’d never seen him before and Mark wished that this could have happened any other way. Something sick and uneasy pooled in the pit of his stomach.

“Mark,” Yugyeom said, standing up and gesturing to a nearby seat. He was tall and handsome, with hands that moved with fluidity that spoke less of this world and more of the outside world in its lack of cruelty, of certainty. Mark faintly remembered a passing comment made that Kim Yugyeom loved to dance. “I’m glad you could join us.”

“Is the gag really necessary?” Mark asked, ignoring Yugyeom’s attempts to greet him until Bambam put a hand on his elbow and unsubtly tugged him towards the center of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Yugyeom said, and for what it was worth, his words felt genuine. “But I need you to be motivated and time is in short supply at the moment. I hope you understand.”

And Mark understood that in theory, but it was difficult to feel charitable as Jackson strained against the two keeping him in place, his eyes never leaving Mark. “What do you want?”

“Yes, let's just get this show on the road,” Bambam said, finally just pushing down on Mark’s shoulders to get him to sit. 

Yugyeom settled back down opposite of them, a nervous tension clear in his shoulders. He  _ was _ young, maybe about Bambam’s age, looking like he belonged at a university graduation ceremony rather than a high rolling High Table hotel as head of a massive illegal organization, but Mark’s heart was too full to make room for sympathy. He’d come here for Jackson.

“As I mentioned previously, my father passed recently and I’ve come to inherit all that was his,” Yugyeom explained. “I am… well, I think it’s fair to say that I am viewed as weak and inexperienced, as my father and I did not get along very well and we did not interact much. None of this is a secret. It’s put quite the target on my back.”

“Take you out, take over the company,” Mark confirmed. If Yugyeom went down before he was considered an established member of the High Table with the loyalty that position demanded, his rival could easily take his place.

Yugyeom smiled wanly and it aged him so much. “I’d like to think I’m doing a decent job so far, but someone’s made a move against me and I can’t ignore it.” The young man reached up and Feifei handed him a photo from the folder she was holding.

“This was stolen from me two days ago,” Yugyeom said, carefully placing the photo on the coffee table and pushing it towards Mark. “I think you might recognize it.”

Mark did, noting the exquisite detailing of the gold within the geometrical flower pendant with familiarity. He’d seen it worn around the neck of Yugyeom’s father. The Kim family crest, older than the city they were in itself.

“So someone’s goading you,” Mark said, raising an eyebrow. The crest was priceless, but it seemed like a minor infraction, all things considered.

Yugyeom inclined his head in acknowledgement. “We even know who it is. I’m sure you’re familiar with the Parks?”

Ah. Now that also made sense. Yugyeom’s father and the head of the Park family had been blood brothers before things had soured, though that had been before Mark’s time. They’d been long standing rivals through the decades, though Park had never been able to establish himself enough to be invited to the High Table.

“This is not the first attempt,” Yugyeom continued on after a brief pause. “And a voice on the wind has suggested that should I allow this to continue, certain allies may... _ waver. _ ”

It was a precarious position for Yugyeom to be in. Mark understood this, knew that the young man must be desperate to head this off before it became a full on turf war. “And where do I fit into this?”

“Retrieve what is mine and I will return what is yours,” Yugyeom said.

Eyes narrowing, Mark looked Yugyeom over. “You have numbers and power on your side already.”

“All I want is a simple exchange,” Yugyeom said, hands spread out in front of him as if offering sincerity. “You have something I desire, Mark Tuan. Your reputation is unparalleled and I have full faith that you have the skills to foster such accolades.” His expression hardened, his lips twisting into a thin line. “I need that reputation on my side. Do this for me and I will ensure nobody ever approaches you ever again.”

“I had all of that before you,” Mark pointed out, and that made Yugyeom laugh, a short, brittle sound. 

“That was a peace that was already beginning to fracture,” he said, even as Bambam patted Mark’s knee. “The High Table was always going to try and bring you back when the time was right. I just did it first.”

“He’s not wrong,” Bambam murmured, though his gaze was softer when Mark looked at him. He didn’t look at Mark like he was a dog on a leash who was only just realizing the leash was finite in length.

Mark weighed his options, though he knew instinctively that there was only one real answer. No other decision would protect Jackson and Mark would do anything,  _ anything _ , to make sure Jackson was safe again.

“Swear with your blood,” he said finally, standing up. 

“Of course. Thank you,” Yugyeom said, and Mark hoped this boy learned how to control his expressions, because the naked relief was so… vulnerable. No wonder the Parks were gunning for him. Yugyeom also stood, taking the knife that Feifei handed him before pricking his fingertip. A locket was produced and Yugyeom pressed his bloody fingertip to it before snapping it closed and handing it over to Mark.

“Wait,” Mark said, throwing a hand out as everyone began to leave, before pointing at Jackson. He deserved this much.

Yugyeom was clearly about to refuse when Bambam touched his shoulder, leaning in to whisper something. Whatever was said, it was enough that Yugyeom straightened up, gesturing to his men. “Five minutes.”

They all filter out while Mark strides to Jackson’s side, reaching up to untie the makeshift gag in his mouth. “Gaga.”

“What’s going on, Yien?” Jackson asked, turmoil in his face as he pressed in close, Milo perking up enough to lick at Mark’s chin. “Who are all these people? Who… who’s Mark?” The way he said it, the searching edge underneath the uncertainty, Mark knew that Jackson had caught on well enough and was hoping, in spite of everything, that Mark would make things better and deny it. 

But that wasn’t how things worked. Not here.

“Have you ever heard of the High Table?” 

Jackson stiffened, enough that Milo let out a soft whine of confusion. Poor puppy was probably exhausted and Mark made a note to talk about Bambam, see if there was something they could do to make it easier for Jackson and Milo both. 

“How do you know that name?” Jackson pressed. “Yien.”

“Come on, Jackson,” Mark said gently, reaching up to press his palm to Jackson’s cheek. “You know the answer already, don’t you?” Jackson was too clever, knew too much because of his job, surely.

And his words were enough, it seemed, because Jackson jerked away, putting space between them as he stepped back and took Milo with him. “I… we always thought it was a myth,” he said, searching Mark’s face. “There were always whispers. Hints. But nothing we’d ever be able to follow.”

“It’s a world of its own,” Mark said, and he didn’t try to follow Jackson, but he ached to close the distance. Trust was not something he deserved, nor Jackson’s love after such a lie, but he hungered for both.

“And this was your world,” Jackon said, still just staring at Mark. “This was… before. When you were Mark.”

Mark just nodded quietly. There’s so much he wished he could tell Jackson now that all this had fallen apart, but there was a knock at the door, Bambam flanked by the two men from earlier. “Time’s up, Mark.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mark said, straightening his shoulders. He had an agreement to honor.

“Take this as a gift of goodwill from the boss,” one of the men said, handing over a thick wad of cash wrapped in a brown paper bag.

“Wait,” Jackson said, just as Mark was about to leave, and Mark turned back, unable to help the flare of hope in his chest. Jackson’s mouth was still twisted unhappily, but he stared at Mark intently. “You need to come back,” he said, fiercely, and Mark ached to lunge back and kiss him. “You need to come back, we’re not done here.”

“I’ll be back,” Mark promised, and he’d fight the world to make sure he didn’t lie to Jackson one more time as he turned and left the parlour, not returning to his room but instead slipping away from the Crown completely to hail a cab.

There was no point in lingering any longer. It was time to find Jaebum.


	5. The return of the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark calls in a favor on an old friend, revisits some old memories, and meets a few new faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo, it's been a hot minute. Discovered that it's a lot harder to write and publish at the same time, but here we are with the next chapter! Should be about 2-3 more after this one. ❤️ Thanks for reading!

The cats were really what gave it away.

A worn wooden cat statuette sat guard next to the restaurant door, cast seedy by the harsh street lamps. As he spotted it, Mark wondered why Jaebum even bothered changing operation headquarters every few months, if he was just going to broadcast exactly where his new residence was – not unlike a cat in heat. 

The one by the door wasn’t alone. There was another cat sitting just inside the front window, Mark passing it as he stepped inside, the door swinging open despite the [CLOSED] sign clearly displayed. Two more cats were placed on the scuffed and worn front desk, flanking the man stood behind it. The man was dressed far too formally for the establishment in a tailored suit and tie, all crisp lines and unyielding stature, cutting an unfamiliar figure for Mark.

“This place is closed,” the man said, words clipped. He did not quite glare at Mark, but it was a near thing, all subtle and imposing. Were Mark not so impatient, he’d be impressed, but instead he just held up the copper charm.

“I need Jaebum,” Mark said. When the man didn’t budge, Mark slowly smiled, beginning sugar sweet and slowly sharpening to a razor. “ _Now_.”

Whether it was that the man finally recognized Mark or at least recognized the danger in his voice, he finally held a hand out. Mark didn’t let the charm leave his hand, but did offer it up for inspection, showing the paw that Jaebum had carved his initials in all that time ago.

“... Please make yourself comfortable,” the man said, stepping away from the front desk and vanishing through a back door, though two people stepped out of that same door and stood on either side, clearly to make sure Mark didn’t try to follow.

Not in the mood to push his luck, Mark wandered into the restaurant’s dining area, taking in the dim yellow lighting and vapid decor. It was an unremarkable place, close enough to foot traffic that it probably did operate during the daytime, but not so popular that people would notice it was still open at night. It lacked soul or excitement, making it ideal for Jaebum’s latest den.

He slid into one of the booths next to a shuttered window, spotting another cat. This one was real though, leaping from where she’d been lazing on the empty bar, her seal points and blue eyes easily recognizable. 

“Hey there,” Mark greets, barely above a whisper, but Nora comes at the click of his tongue, leaping up to the chair next to him in order to sniff his fingertips. “Long time, no see, baby.”

“She thinks you’re going to feed her treats,” Jaebum said as he dropped into the seat opposite of Mark, brow furrowed only for a moment as Nora stayed next to Mark, purring loudly. 

“She’s always liked me,” Mark said as he quietly scooped up the cat. Jackson had turned him into a dog person, but prior to that… well.

Prior to that, there had been Jaebum. 

Sort of.

“Why are you here, Mark?” Jaebum asked.

Mark looked up from where Nora was nuzzling his chin, raising one eyebrow at his old friend. “You know why I’m here.”

They stared at each other for a long moment and then Jaebum looked away. “I wish you hadn’t come,” he murmured softly.

There was no room for sentiment, Mark supposed. Not anymore.

***

Mark was nineteen – still small and pretty, but people had since learned to take his beauty in tandem with his danger. He was not lovely in the way that a rose was lovely with its thorns, but his beauty was like that of glass shards and barbed wire, twisted into something incredible but all made of jagged edges meant to hurt.

Minjae had long since pulled him from the fighting rings, now contracting him out to various factions and families, with no regard for the turf wars or petty infighting. “We do not take sides,” Minjae said as he guided Mark into the Crown with a gentle hand. “But it’s good to know whose side you would take if a choice were to be made.”

(Bambam was in the Crown during that time, but tucked away in the kitchens with his homework occupying a small table in the corner. They would not meet for some time.)

Instead, Mark was led into one of the various parlors, not unlike how he’d someday meet Yugyeom, but this time the clan head he was introduced to was older, with a grizzled face and missing an eye as she stared down at him impassively. Beside her stood someone closer to Mark’s age, his hair cut choppily, his clothes casual on the verge of sloppy, and his jaw jutting angrily.

Im Jaebum’s name was not well known yet, but Mark had heard a whisper or two. Jaebum tried to glare at Mark and Mark just stared back, unmoved but almost bewildered at where Jaebum thought posturing was going to get him. 

Minjae pressed a thumb into the ridges of Mark’s spine, a silent sign to focus on the matter at hand. There would be time to play with punks later. 

“There are sensitive documents I need retrieved,” the clan head informed them. “The warehouse they’re being kept in is heavily guarded so covert is key. Jaebum will assist in getting your ward in and out, but he will have to locate and retrieve on his own. Is he up for it?”

“I would not have brought him if he wasn’t,” Minjae assured her, casual and confident.

(Mark would later miss Minjae, the man vanishing abruptly in Mark’s early twenties. Mark hoped that it meant Minjae had left to find a different life like Mark would eventually, but perhaps it was safer to assume that Minjae was dead.)

“I could do this without you,” Jaebum told Mark. It was hours later, the two of them driving through the city, all bright lights and nightlife. “I don’t need you.”

“I didn’t ask,” Mark replied dryly.

“You’re just here because you’re expendable,” Jaebum muttered darkly, and he was so full of resentment and frustration that Mark nearly laughed, almost wanting to reach out and pat him on the head like a silly pup.

He was pretty sure Jaeum would shoot him if he did, so he refrained, falling silent and letting Jaebum stew until they got to the warehouse where Jaebum led Mark to a maintenance tunnel close, obscured by a couple shipping containers.

“If you’re not back in time, I’m setting this place on fire and you can burn,” Jaebum warned, still all bristled up.

Mark stopped from where he was examining the tunnel and looked over his shoulder, suddenly daring. “Next time just kiss me,” he said, and while Jaebum spluttered out a refusal, red-faced and aghast, Mark dropped down into the maintenance tunnel.

Two hours later and Mark bolted out of the maintenance tunnel, the warehouse already set ablaze as he slid into Jaebum’s car, files pressing uncomfortably where he’d stuffed them down the back of his shirt. “Get us out of here.”

Jaebum nearly jumped out of his skin at Mark’s sudden appearance, fumbling for the ignition in a way that would be comical if Mark wasn’t covered in blood and bits of brain matter. “What the fuck.”

“Just drive,” Mark said through gritted teeth, carefully peeling back his jacket to examine the shallow gash just below his ribs. He’d managed to get through most of the warehouse unscathed but some asshole had doubled back at just the wrong moment. He’d shoved the same knife that wounded him into the man’s brain, so it wasn’t all wasted at least.

“... Are…” Jaebum sounded nervous, licking his lips as he spared a glance to where Mark tugged off his jacket to press the sleeve over the wound. “Are you okay?”

Mark raised an eyebrow from where he’s hunched over. “You act like you’ve never seen blood before.”

“I don’t normally do this part of things!” Jaebum said, sounding inordinately defensive, though he settled down into the drive, doubling back on himself and weaving through the city to ensure they weren’t being tailed before he drove to a safe house in one of the quieter sides of town, somewhere safe to hunker down for the night and see to Mark’s injuries.

Jaebum did try to kiss Mark – later, after Mark’s wound had been bandaged and all the blood had been washed down the shower drain. He was clearly nervous, nearly fumbling as he curled a hand on Mark’s arm and tried to reel him in.

And Jaebum was cute and Mark was bored, but Mark still leaned back when Jaebum leaned forward. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said, grinning at the way Jaebum immediately looked mortified. “You’re not my type.”

“I hate you.”

Despite all that, they’d become something akin to friends – as close as one could be friends in such lives that they led. Jaebum decided that active work didn’t suit him and withdrew, building a network of spies in the shadow of his mother and Mark always sought him out when he needed something hard to find. 

They survived things together and Mark was nearly twenty five when Jaebum pressed the copper cat charm into his palm, looking very much like he wanted to kiss Mark, but didn’t.

It worked for them. 

Mark chose not to say goodbye to Jaebum the way he had for Bambam.

***

“You owe me,” Mark reminded him. 

Jaebum pursed his lips, displeased. “You vanish off the face of the earth for three years and then barge back in here to demand favors? I don’t owe you anything.”

A tense silence settled over them, Jaebum with his vexed airs and Mark in quiet contemplation. It was just like Jaebum to be like this – he’d been a bit pig-headed before, and hadn’t quite left that behind.

So Mark set Nora down and leaned forward, pinning Jaebum down with a stare. It was one Jaebum should recognize, he’d seen it so many times already. After all, Jaebum had been there for the Christmas lights incident, among many others. 

“You. Owe. Me,” he enunciated.

Jaebum broke his gaze first, teeth gritted as he looked at the cat amboling away from them, casual as a cucumber. “If I refused you, nobody would rebuke me for it,” Jaebum said, his words nearly as careful as Mark’s, but holding a small tremor. Was he so angry? Or was he afraid? “Bambam knows better. Who on the High Table would care after all of this? Now with you meddling with some wet-eared child.”

And maybe that was true. Maybe the High Table would not enforce Mark’s markers while he was aiding Yugyeom, at least not until Yugyeom established himself as a true member of the High Table. Jaebum wasn’t wrong on that front, and yet.

And yet.

“Funny that you think I need someone else to settle _my_ business,” Mark said, folding his arms and cocking his head to the side, still so quiet, still so precise.

And instead of silence, the unspoken threat hung above them.

“... Is he really worth it?” Jaebum finally asked, still not meeting his gaze.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Mark replied. He owed Jaebum nothing, but all things had a cost and this was the cost Mark would pay for Jackson and no entity, no being, could stand in his way. Not the Park family, not Jaebum, not _God._

Mark would burn the world to ash to keep Jackson safe.

It took Jaebum time to relent, but he did finally drag a hand down his face. He suddenly looked so much emptier, and Mark knew that he could never be the one to fill those gaps. “There’s a sewer system that will get you into the compound,” he said. “Most of it’s pretty heavily guarded, but there’s a defunct manufacturing plant that has one tunnel that you can walk right in and then make your way over.”

Jaebum stood, mouth set in a soft line of displeasure, as a couple drunkards passed by the window. “Would you give me that cat back if I asked?” 

“I’m going to need heavier equipment,” Mark said, pointedly not answering as he pocketed the charm. If Jaebum had wanted to be free, he should have considered not following Mark around like a lovesick puppy when they were nineteen. “And a bike, you know what I like. _And_ if I’m going to walk out of here into an ambush.”

He could still hear the drunkards lingering on the street corner, long after they should have wandered off.

Jaebum grimaced. “You’re _such_ a pain in the ass, Tuan. Fine. Come on.”

He led Mark to the back of the restaurant, where a handful of others were working, hunched behind laptops or rifling through stolen documents and ledgers. “Eric, Felix,” he barked, causing two younger men to jump to their feet, looking about as young as Mark had been when he’d met Jaebum. “Get this asshole what he needs from the stash and then clean up the front door.”

Mark patted Jaebum on the shoulder, genuinely laughing when Jaebum clacked his teeth together in a snap of annoyance. “Thanks, sweetcheeks.”

***

As it turned out, Felix and Eric were as young and as enthusiastic as they appeared.

“I’m such a huge fan,” Eric said, struggling to maintain composure as he unlocked several crates, allowing Mark to peruse various rifles and customized ammunition – for all that Jaebum didn’t go on the attack much, he had some nasty babies on hand. Mark helped himself to a few grenades, on top of some gas canisters and other little projective friends, all the while Eric stared at him, completely starstruck.

“Did you really do all of that with the Christmas lights?” Felix asked, voice startlingly deep for such a tiny kid. He was slightly less enamoured with Mark’s reputation, more curious than anything else.

“I would say that some details have been exaggerated, but other details have been left out completely,” Mark said as he closed the case of an assault rifle to take with him. “You should ask your boss about it, he was there.”

“He never wants to talk about it,” Eric mutters, pouting like the cutest little puppy, and fucking hell, where was Jaebum _finding_ these kids? 

Felix twirled a key fob around his finger. “We can take you out the back, but the garage is across the street and we’ve got something to deal with… unless?” He titled his head to the side and grinned questioningly.

Mark looked from the stars in Eric’s eyes to the playful twitch of Felix’s lips and couldn’t help himself.

“I guess I could lend a hand,” he said, slinging the rifle case over his shoulder and going instead for his Glock.

***

It also turned out that for all their youthful exuberance, Felix and Eric were _good._

Felix had taken point, leading them out the back and down the alleyway, silent as the grave as he crept along the shadows, Eric on his heels. They worked together with a practiced ease that came with long familiarity, and Mark realized they must’ve been side by side for quite some time.

(He wondered if Jaebum had wanted that with him.)

It was clear that the men pretending to be drunk on the street corner were just waiting for Mark to leave – several of them were making loud conversation, but it was clear that several of them were eyeing the door, hands resting on ill-concealed weapons.

“Huh,” Felix muttered, barely audible. “I would have thought they’d send more.”

“They should have,” Eric muttered back, and he almost sounded affronted.

Mark hadn’t thought having a legacy would look like this.

“Just cover my ass,” he said, stepping past both of them and into the light of the street lamp so the drunkards could spot him. 

One of them seemed to be the leader, a burly older man who lumbered forward. “Hey Tuan,” he called out. “My boss sends his–”

Mark shot the man’s face off before he could finish his sentence, blood spraying on several of his compatriots.

Grinning, Mark dove into the mess of them, fist sinking straight into another man’s face before the first had even hit the ground, breaking his nose,and then Mark cocked his fist back and punched again, driving the shards of cartilage deeper than they were meant to go. The man’s face went delightfully concave. Another one down.

In his periphery, Mark saw Felix sliding into the fray, breaking someone’s ankle before shooting them through the chest. He was showy, but deadly – like a little pedigree pet assassin, though Mark had to give him credit for ingenuity when Felix ripped a crowbar from another man’s hands and used it to literally pry the man’s jaw from his skull. _Nasty_ little pet assassin.

Inversely, Eric kept his distance, choosing to take potshots at idiots who didn’t know how to keep up with Mark. Mark couldn’t spare him too much mind, but he did pause at one point to see Eric sitting on the dumpster in the mouth of the alleyway, pausing from downing a man with three clean shots to the head to look hopeful at Mark.

It was kind of adorable.

Still, for all that there had been a small mob waiting for them, they razed through them like a hot knife to butter only far, far more gruesomely, until all that was left was the sound of blood dripping from Felix’s crowbar.

It was a shame it was over so soon.

Mark cast a look around at the slew of bodies and then looked to the boys with a raised eyebrow. Eric hadn’t even gotten close enough to take actual risk and Felix had taken a hit to the arm but not enough to look like it even hurt him, merely made him coy with the crimson stain of blood.

“That was so _cool_ ,” Eric said, grinning as he made his way over. “Juyeon’s going to be so jealous when I tell him.”

“You’ve got a nice aim,” Mark replied, watching as Eric lit up with the praise. He turned to Felix, hand outstretched, and the boy dropped the keys in his hand, his other hand holding a phone as he snapped a few pictures at the scene around them, clearly calling for a cleaning crew.

“Good luck, sir,” Felix said, giving Mark a salute before tugging Eric back towards the restaurant.

“We’re rooting for you!” Eric called over his shoulder as they both disappeared from view. 

Now on his own, Mark looked from the keys to the garage that was across the street, stepping carefully over several bodies to make his way over. The garage revealed a series of luxury sports cars, with a sleek motorcycle tucked in the front. 

Grinning, Mark ran his fingertips over the sleek chrome finish before swinging a leg over. He had a job to do, he had a husband to reclaim, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy himself in the meantime.

There was the squeal of tires and the smell of burning rubber as he peeled out of the garage, streaking off down the street with a screech of machinery, like a nightmare, a spectre. The dawn was coming, turning the sky orange, all haunting with blood diluted by the clouds.

Time to pay the Park estate a visit.


End file.
